Thursday, February 28, 2008

Anastasia

She wounds herself
in her own way,
a signature wound
with no more time to heal..

She never really wanted hands
so she has bone-bound her fingers.
Her keepers push plush
carrots in her hands to keep them open.

Now she is lips and mouth
during silent days,
lifted,
someone bringing drinks.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

After the Tea Party

So the hub-bub has ended
and everybody goes away.
Once again he looks like a man
who is supposed to be alone,
doing raggedy scaley scars
things and nostrils never clean.

I watch him leave the place in silence
walking a tilted one-and-a-half legged walk,
carrying his odd sacks, missing the path and
trodding unpredictibly into the snow.
His boots won't last.

Secretly, he never does things simply,
insists on subtlety. Who knows it?
You don't get sophisticated alone.
You have to speak. But I've forgotten that.

Friday, February 22, 2008

Meditation on the Movie, "Wit"

Don't worry
even short stories
have lots of and-thens.

It is years,
months and days
and then the and-thens stop.

I'm afraid
out here by myself.
The bed is not warm.

The time just before
I stop being is what scares me.
After that, who cares?

The Ghost in the Machine

And so the fan motor
starts to talk
makitymakitymakamakamak
mak i ty mak i ty mak a mak a mak
mac itches mac itches making a snack in back
mac itches mac itches making a snack in back
back itches back itches smacking a tack a wack
mac itches mac itches making a snack in back
back itches back itches smacking a tack a wack
sack bitches sack britches smacking attack-ing wacks
sack bitches sack britches smacking attack-ing wacks
white bitches black witches making a smack attack
sack bitches sack britches smacking attack-ing wacks
black witches hot bitches packing to get a snack
black witches hot bitches ready to cop a hack.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

The Soul Competiton

All the young poets
gather for the annual
thrill-maker contest.
The winner will be the one
who can produce the biggest
goosebumps. All
the devices of sentiment
are usable. And the prize
is true romance.

And the prize
is true romance, there
glowing in it's golden
case on the judges platform,
true romance in ecstasy and ease.

Oh there are some
powerful voices here
and the audience is ready
with open ear. The judges
with cool paper, measuring scales.
The poet who
loves the best will dazzle them all,
the one who loves the best.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Love and Sales

You can try to sell
and convince and court.
It's an exhausting game
living with a target
that always tries to run away.

If they take it,
it's with reluctance
and the good will is an
item of negotiation.
Tit for tat they say.

But when she comes up to you
and takes your hand in spite
of your confoundment and she wants it
she wants it! That's a surprise.
The hand comes and the touch,
brand new, is like a warm sunrise.

Tree Stumps with Mysterious Messages


Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Birthday Card to Myself


Sunday, February 10, 2008

Effect of Silent Days

We are not
people of the sun .
Words, not sunrise
make the dawn.

When there are
no words in the morning
the day languishes,
stuporous, pale twilight .

You, maker
of early morning speech,
transmitter of the sun, my eyes
open for you.

Saturday, February 09, 2008

Act Three

I know you are frightened
when I leave you,
have only
an inkling of
what it's like.

Familiar places
fit around me
expecting life,
keeping me round and full,
stuffed with the future.

You are out there all alone
in a strange place, novel
yet ancient among strangers
steeped in finality and fate,
time skinny.

Your mind, the mind I know,
watches the implosions.
You know you have
convulsed yourself.
You can see yourself twisting.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

Wonderland

Wizened from years of bingo smarting,
tiny Mina stands at the TV table
removing video tapes from their boxes
scrambling their titles. Being helpful, yesterday
she portioned the milk into small glasses
and added thickener. Junie wanders into Jennifer's room
and samples the bed like Goldilocks. Peter
the man from the sidewalk bench shuffles in his
carefully supervised shoes with pants falling down
sucking his lips and wiping them with
extruded tongue. Miranda, bursting with cheer
bounds about the hall responding to one
important phone call after the other,
awaiting her groom to be. Lean and imperious
Irene points as she furrows her cool
administrative brow. Michael the big man
with hard loud voice blocks the passageway,
shoving his wheelchair into legs, crying for cigarettes.
The make believe tea party for dolls,
the speech which comes so earnestly and
dissipates on a journey to chaos, the sapped silence,
the mystery friends to populate a mistaken spirit,
the learning mangled, the scary rage of a helpless man
all happen at once.

Monday, February 04, 2008

Mary Allison Samuels

Beyond the revolution and a
member of the post mini-skirt
generation, with her long shiny legs,
in the turning of her biography.

Twenty-five, just when life got longer and
the prime of life got younger,
she moves into the office tower
with a title on her door.

Thinking she is heir to the world
and all mistakes belong to males,
she has not yet enjoyed
the special agonies of women.